[Except that the paragraphs have been numbered, this is
the text that appeared in Good Company (4:453-456) in March 1880.]

1. The day I met this little friend
of mine (whom I never shall forget) I had just left some other friends,
and I was sorry that my pleasant visit to them was over. I had a long journey
to take before I reached home, and I was to take it alone. I did not mind
this, in one way, for I have grown used to traveling by myself, but I felt
lonely enough that day after the cars started. However, I was lucky in
having a most comfortable section in the sleeping-car, and I was well provided
with books and lunch and pleasant thoughts. So, after I had looked miserably
out of the window at nothing for half an hour, I began to settle myself
comfortably for the day or two I must spend in the train. There were several
passengers, but no one whom I had ever seen before, and it was some time
before I lost the feeling that I was with a company of unknown people,
and began to take an interest in my fellow travelers separately. There
were the usual young couple in very new clothes who tried to make us believe
that they had been married these ten years, and there were two comfortable
elderly women who knew each other and were journeying together, loudly
talking over parish and neighborhood matters by the way. Not far from me
was a round, red-cheeked old lady in a somewhat fantastic dress, with a
big bonnet all covered with ends of narrow ribbon and lustreless bugles.
I am sure she had made it herself and was proud and conscious of it. She
had a great deal of small luggage in the compartment with her, and I thought
she must be changing her home, for she never could be taking away so many
and such curious looking packages just for a visit. Beside these people
there were four or five business men and a Catholic priest, and just opposite
my own place was a little girl.

2. For some time I supposed she
must belong to some one in the car, and had chosen to sit by herself for
a while and look out of the window. Then I thought her father must have
left her to go to some other part of the train where he had found some
one to talk with. But two hours went by, and it was toward noon, and I
watched the little thing grow sleepy and at last put her head down on the
seat, and the doll she had held so carefully slid to the floor. I picked
it up and put it on her arm again so she might find it when she waked.
I had noticed that the conductor had spoken to her, and I thought I would
ask him about her when he next came by.

3. She did not sleep very long;
the stopping of the train startled her, and when she opened her eyes I
smiled at her and beckoned her to come to me. So she climbed the seat beside
me, still holding the doll, and I asked her what its name was, and if she
were all alone, and where she was going. She looked up gravely into my
face and told me the doll's name and her own, and then she did not say
anything more. She was younger than I had thought at first, and yet she
was grave and sober and saddened. "Isn't your papa with you?" said I, but
she only shook her head and looked up at me again as she sat beside me.
I was strangely drawn to the little thing, she puzzled me, and she was
so wistful. She seemed contented, and we both looked out of the window,
and talked now and then about the things we saw. She sat in my lap so she
could see better.

4. After some time she said to
me, "Mother is dead," in a half questioning way, as if she expected me
to say something; but what could I say, except that I was sorry? - though
there was all that wonder in her face at having been brought in contact
with so great a mystery. This new, undreamed of, uncomfortable change was
almost too much for her mind to recognize at all, but she had been shocked
by it, and everything was different from what it used to be. She knew that
at any rate.

5A. "Poor little girl," said I.

5B. "She said she was going to
die," the child told me, still watching me with her sad and curious eyes
as if everybody knew the secret of it all and would not tell her.

6. "You will know all about it
when you are older, dear, and you will see her again by and by," I said;
but she shook her head.

7. "She isn't coming back any
more," she told me, as if she were sure of that at any rate.

8 She was very hungry, and I was
more pitiful than ever, for the fact of her friendlessness grew more and
more plain. She had very nice ways; she evidently had been brought up carefully,
and there was a quaint dignity and reserve about her; she did nothing in
a hurry, as if she had never been with other children at all and had learned
no childish or impatient ways. I noticed her clothes, which were beginning
to look worn and outgrown, but were very clean and well kept. It was on
the edge of winter, but she still wore what must have been her last summer's
hat, a little leghorn hat trimmed with white ribbon, and over her shoulders
she had one of the very smallest of plaid shawls folded corner wise, and
pinned over neatly. She had some mittens, but she had taken those off and
put them together on the window ledge.

9. Presently the conductor came
in, evidently in a hurry, and when he saw that we had been lunching together
he looked as if a weight were taken off his mind.

10. "I'm very much obliged to
you," he said to me; "I meant to take her out and give her some dinner
when we stopped, but I got a dispatch that something had gone wrong up
the line, and I had to fly round as fast 's I could. I only got part of
a cup o' coffee myself."

11. "Is she under your care?"
I asked.

12. The conductor moved the little
girl to the seat facing mine, and bent over to tell me. "She's left all
alone in the world. Father was a friend of mine, freight conductor on the
road, and he was killed pretty near two years ago. Wife was a nice little
woman, and the company helped her some, and she sewed and got along very
well for a while, but she never had any health, and she died last Sunday
of the pneumonia very sudden, - buried day before yesterday. The folks
in the house sent a dispatch to a sister in Boston they'd heard her speak
of, and she answered right off she'd take the child. They can't sell off
what little stuff there is until they hear from her. My wife told me how
things were and I spoke to the superintendent and said I'd take her on
free, I guessed. I'd a-taken her home myself and welcome, but long 's she's
got some folks of her own she'd better go to 'em. I don't much believe
in fetching up other folks' [folks] children, but I told my wife last thing
as I came out of the house that if I didn't like the looks of the woman
that comes for her I'm just going to fetch her back again. She's the best
little thing I ever saw; seems as if she knew what had happened and was
trying to make the best of it. I found this Pullman wasn't full, and I
thought she could move round in here more than in one of the other cars.
There ain't much travel at this time of year."

13. "I'll take the best care I
can of her," said I; "I'm going to Boston;" and the conductor nodded and
touched Nelly's cheek and disappeared.

14. She seemed to look upon everybody
as her friend. She walked with unsteady, short steps to the other end of
the car, and the bride, who was a pleasant looking young girl, spoke to
her kindly and gave her some candy; but I was sure that presently the child
said, as she had said to me, that her mother was dead, for I saw the girl
bend over her and flush a little, while her eyes filled with tears. I dare
say she thought of her own mother whom she had so lately left, and she
put her arm close round the child and kissed her, and afterwards seemed
to be telling her a story at which Nelly smiled now and then.

15. I read for a while, but in
the middle of the afternoon I fell asleep, and when I waked again the car
lamps were lighted, and I looked for the little traveler, who was standing
in the passage way of the car. She had taken off her hat and there was
evidently something wrong with it, for she was looking at it anxiously
and trying to fasten something which had broken. I tried to beckon her
to me, but in the seat just beside her was the priest, a stout, unsympathetic
looking old gentleman, and I was half amused and half touched to see her
give the hat to him and show him where to fasten the strap of it. He was
evidently much confused; he even blushed, but he did what she asked him
with clumsy fingers and then put the hat on for her, as she stood before
him and bent down her head as if he would have had to reach up to it. She
was going away then, but he stopped her and gave her some bits of money
from his pocket; she came a step or two nearer to him and held up her face
to kiss him, and then he looked out of the window a minute and afterward
turned and looked at his neighbors appealingly. It had been like a flower
dropped into his prosaic life, I imagine; he was evidently quite surprised
and pleased by so touching a confidence.

16. It must have been a long,
dull day for a child to spend, but she was as good as possible, and did
not give anybody the least trouble. We talked with each other about her,
and felt as if she were under the care of every one of us. I could not
help thinking how often we are at each other's mercy as we go through this
world, and how much better it would be if we were as trustful and unsuspicious
as this little child, and only looked for kindness at our neighbors' hands.

17. Just as it was growing dark
she came to me and put her hand into mine and gave it a little pull.

18. "Come and see the birds,"
said she, and I suddenly became aware of the chirping of a robin somewhere
near us. It was a funny sound to hear in the winter twilight, with the
rattling of the train and shriek of the whistles, for it was really the
note of a robin who was going to sleep on his nest in an apple tree, or
high on an elm bough, some early summer evening. But Nelly led me toward
the old lady with so many bundles, and I found one of her treasures was
a bird cage, and there sure enough was the red-breast, a fat fellow with
smooth feathers, who winked and blinked at us and stopped his chirping
as we stood beside him.

19. "She seems pleased with him,
the little girl does," said the bird's owner. "I'd like to have her see
the rest of my birds. Twenty-three I've got in all; thirteen of 'em 's
canaries. The woman in the other part of the house is taking care of 'em
while I'm gone. I'm going on to Stockbridge to spend Thanksgiving with
my niece. It was a great piece o' work to get started and I didn't feel
at first 's if I could leave the birds, but I knew Martha's folks would
feel hurt if I put 'em off again this year about coming. But I had to take
the old robin along with me. Some folks said it might be the death of him,
but he's never been one mite scared. His cage stands in a window at home
where he sees a sight o' passing. He's the tamest thing you ever saw. Now
I'm so fur on my way I'm glad I did make up my mind to start, though it'll
be bad getting there in the night. I think a change is good for anybody,
and then I'm so tied down most of the time with the birds that I don't
get out much, and there's nobody to fetch in the news."

20. "Why don't you bring up a
few carrier pigeons with the rest of your family?" said I, and this seemed
to amuse her very much.

21. "Sakes alive! I don't want
no more," said she; "but then I've said that all along; all the folks that
keeps canaries in our place comes to me if anything ails 'em. I was telling
this little girl if I'd known I was going to see her I'd have brought along
a nice little linnet for her; he'll sing all day long, but he and the one
I put him with is always fighting each other, and all my other cages is
too full a'ready. I reckon you'd be good to the little bird, wouldn't you
now, dear?" The little traveler smiled eagerly, while I suddenly thought
of the five sparrows that are sold for a farthing of this world's money
and yet are worth so much to God.

22. I think we were all anxious
to see what kind of woman the aunt would be, and I was half afraid she
would look hard hearted, and I knew in that case I should always be sorry
when I thought of the little girl whose hand I was so sorry to let go.
I had looked after her at night. I had waked a dozen times to look at her
sweet little shadowed face as she slept, with the doll held fast in her
arms.

23. At the station in the morning
I found some one who came to meet me, but I could not go until I saw the
aunt. I waited with the conductor for a few minutes, and I was beginning
to fear I must say good-by to my little traveler and never know her fortunes.
Every one of the passengers had given her something, I believe - picture-papers
and fruit and candy, and I do not know what else - and I had seen even
the old priest kiss her good-by most tenderly, and lay his hand on her
head in what I am sure was a heart-felt blessing. I do not know whether
it was some grand old Latin benediction, or a simple longing that God would
be near to the lonely child and that His saints would defend her as she
goes through the world to Heaven.

24. I was glad when I saw just
the woman I had wished and hoped for coming hurriedly toward us - there
was no doubt that it was all right, she was sure of the child at a glance.
I had fancied all the time that she must look like her mother.

25. "My dear baby!" the woman
said with a sob and caught her in her arms, while the little girl, with
a quick, instinctive love, put out her short arms and they clung to each
other without a word.

26. It was all right, as the conductor
said again, half to himself and half to me. After a minute the woman said
brokenly that she thanked him for his kindness. Poor Ellen! she never knew
she was sick till the news came she was gone. He must tell people that
Nelly would have a good home. They stopped to talk longer and Nelly stood
gravely by, but I had to hurry away, and after I was in the carriage I
wished I could go back to kiss the little thing again.